Blood Appeal: Vigilante--A Species of Common Law

by Lyle O'Connor

  Joyce had moved back to Shell Knob for her young boys’ safety and to help her aging parents run their small family resort on the edge of Table Rock Lake. I understood her reasons for returning to her childhood home. A country lifestyle, free of crime, and closer family ties appealed to her. For Joyce, the straw that broke the camel’s back was when her co-worker at Toronto’s Musolino’s Osteria had been shot-to-death in the restaurant’s parking lot. She told me she’d had her fill of big city life and planned to leave as soon as she found a way to finance her return home.

  I’ve kept my life a secret from Joyce. I would’ve liked to have been up front with her, but I’ve found my passion difficult to explain. Especially challenging would be where I shot her co-worker to death. Doubtful she would have understood why he deserved termination with extreme prejudice. She would’ve been less understanding of how, in a roundabout way, the mobsters I killed had donated her funds to move to Missouri. To finance Joyce’s relocation, the Mob money we’d intercepted was funneled through Gladys Mitchell, a woman known for her hospitality and generosity to young, disadvantaged women. A sense of rightness prevailed when word trickled back she’d made the commitment to move her family to Shell Knob and away from the criminal elements in Toronto. Meeting up with Joyce again was never part of my plan.

  When the project wrapped up, I saddled up for a lengthy road trip to Oregon. Without a reason to rush my jaunt to Portland, I capitalized on the opportunity to see the fruits of my labor and ended up in Shell Knob. For the time being, there was no way around my dilemma; the dealt hand was the hand I played, and I played it smart.

  My immediate concern with the finding of the body was the backlash this tiny community would have in response to a brutal murder. My fears were not unfounded. I’d seen it all before, firsthand, in John Day, Oregon, when I killed a pervert that needed killing. In the big cities, people put an extra chain or bolt lock on their front doors for protection from the evil. In small communities, they loaded both barrels of their trusty shotgun and hunted down wickedness as if it were a ravenous wild dog on the prowl. Neither Landers’ article nor Barry County’s finest would be able to satisfy the locals. All they understood was “lock ‘n’ load.”

  Similar to mountain militia’s, scores of men, women, and children, climbed into pickups and hopped on four-wheelers to scour the hillsides and ravines. In some cases, people hoofed it from one house to the next to check on neighbors and look for signs of anything suspicious.

  Joyce reacted too. Upon receipt of her first phone call, she called her boys in from outside and had them play in the house for the remainder of the day. For the weeks that followed, Joyce and her family kept unusually close tabs on the children.

  The report of the killing served to remind me of who I was, and what I’d been called to do. Evil lurked everywhere.

  Typically, crime in Barry County was the result of moonshine, methamphetamines, or domestic violence. Shocking to the community was the death of an unknown young girl whose body had been found dumped as if she were a bag of garbage. Residents were frightened at the existence of an unknown menace. No one spoke of the possibility the killer was a resident. That was too difficult to fathom. Their concern focused with an outsider, likely a drifter, who had moved in amongst them. Their refuge had been eviscerated by a terrifying act and fear; one that had stolen peace from their community. With their isolated-backcountry way of life having been shattered, suspicion and distrust prevailed.

  It was my luck—bad luck—to still be considered an outsider around these parts and not one of the good ol’ boys who was above suspicion. Any questioning of my presence in Barry County by the Sheriff’s Department would be uncomfortable or worse—revealing.

  The resort, where I’ve had my residency for the past three months, was owned by Joyce’s parents, Sue Ellen, and Harlan Farmer. The main two-story, bed and breakfast style resort, was nestled in a picturesque tree lined setting near the lake. Behind the larger structure on the lake’s edge sat four rental cabins, quiet and quaint. I’d rented cabin number four. Joyce had offered to rent me a room in the main house next to hers, but I declined. I had to have privacy.

  Cassville was the County Seat and sat twenty miles from the east end of Shell Knob. Located between Cassville and the Farmer’s resort was Cletus Forbes place. The nearness of Whiskey Gulch to the resort was potentially problematic. I couldn’t escape the fact I lived in proximity to the murder. As the crow flies, the resort was less than five miles east from where they’d discovered the girl’s body. From the resort’s location, all I had to do was pass over Table Rock Bridge and hang a left from Highway 39 towards Ledgerwood Hollow. From there, you had to know where you were going. Whiskey Gulch didn’t have a sign.

  I saw the writing on the wall, and it spelled danger. I expected an uncomfortable closeness to develop with law enforcement. Knowing I’d be considered a suspect, my interest was galvanized. Self-preservation and a higher calling forced my hand to take a proactive approach. I had to work my sources to see what they had for information. Since my intentions had been to stay off the radar, my pool of people to draw from was limited.

  Reporter Jay Landers and I had become quasi-friends. I’d become acquainted with him at a charitable function for kindergartners at the elementary school where Joyce’s eldest son, Trey, attended. Landers had taken an interest in me, more than I had in him. I surmised his attraction toward me was based solely on my being presented as a seasoned journalist. Landers was a relative newbie to the media circus while I enjoyed the veteran status of my facade. By regurgitating a few things that my old friend Harold Horn had covered from the crime beat for the Portland Trumpeter-Gazette, and passed them off as my own, I’d convinced Landers that I was the real deal. I told him that to protect myself against the possibility of some bad guy seeking revenge, I’d used a byline. When you lie, be specific and don’t flower it up too much. You might forget how you told it, and get caught in your own trap. Most of the time, I chose to avoid the subject of reporting on crime scenes lest I blundered, and he’d become suspicious of my claims. Creating a problem where one didn’t exist didn’t make any sense to me.

  Friday morning I placed a call to Landers. I’d left a message on his office answering machine and held out a degree of hope he’d be able to get back with me soon. As a local reporter, Landers had access to Barry County’s Sheriff Department, making him my best and only resource. I needed to know what he’d dug up. My mind spun a hundred miles an hour as I determined the best course of action to take.

  Contemplation has been known to require an investment of time which everyone knows down South, is best served by a comfortable stump. Having located such, a gnarly old chunk of a log, I dragged it to the water’s edge in front of my cabin. Of course, no viable meditation was possible without the proper accompanying beverage or two while I dangled my feet in the lake water. I brewed a fresh jug of coffee, grabbed a clean cup, and walked fifteen yards to the water’s edge. I marked my spot on the ground with the jug and scanned the area for potential shade if the sun grew too warm.

  My lounging on the gnarly log lasted but a few minutes before I opted for a more comfortable folding lawn chair. I eased my feet into the lake’s warmer water at the edge and poured the coffee. Leaning back, I absorbed the peaceful view and drank while listening to the birds declaring it to be a beautiful day. But my mind ushered back the bloody dreams and bone-chilling screams from the previous nights, until the message sunk in deep. It wasn’t a beautiful day for the dead girl. Somewhere in the not too distant future I had the responsibility to ensure it wasn’t going to be a beautiful day for those who had committed the murder—I’d see to it personally.

  It was early afternoon before Landers returned my call.

  “Walter, this is Jay Landers.”

  “I’ll bet you’re busy with the scoop on that dead girl?”

  “I’m trying brother; I’m trying. I’m finding a lot of hurry up and wait for information from agencies.” />
  I laughed. “Been there and done that.” Then I laughed again as I prepared to make inroads. “Just wanted to tell you, you’re doing an excellent job with the story. This type of reporting can be hard, but I have a few ideas that I’d like to run past you which might make it a little easier.”

  “Walter, I know you’ve covered a few of these cases, I’d appreciate any insight you can provide. Are you available later today?”

  “Sure, let’s hook up at Carole’s Restaurant?”

  “How’s four-thirty for a cup. I’ll buy.”

  “Sounds good to me. I’m not one to turn down free Java.”

  Over the past few months, Joyce and I had developed a close relationship. I found her attractive and desirable, but there was an underlying current that plagued our relationship. I wasn’t foolish enough to compare what I had with Anna to what Joyce and I shared. I’d been ready to commit my life to Anna, and emotionally I was nowhere near that with Joyce. Anna haunted my memories. Knowing what I had and what I might have had was a burden. Anna was everything I dreamed of in a woman. Stunningly beautiful, a Palatini, and she wielded a knife like a ninja. My life was complete with her in a way that was impossible with Joyce. I could be myself with Anna—a vigilante. I had kissed a future with Anna good-bye when I left Toronto because I was too foolish. I allowed a bad reaction to create a wrong decision. It was the final nail in the coffin of our relationship.

  Joyce was an attractive woman too with an embedded beauty throughout her character. Her depth of devotion to family was commendable, as well as her home baked cookies. Joyce’s lifestyle was refreshingly simple in all the right ways. I adored that about her.

  Joyce sent all the right signals for our bond to blossom. All I had to do was ask, and she’d be mine. But, who’s would she be? The person I’ve shown her, a benevolent and caring Walter, or Walter the assassin who eradicates evil? The fact was she couldn’t know either of us, not in any real way. I could see only pain in our future together. How long could I hide being a Palatini before she found out I was something she hated. She would never understand my reasons to kill. She hated violence as did I, but our approach was as different as night from day, and yet, night and day come together twice within every twenty-four hour period. Doubtful we could find that much common ground. Evil would never be overcome by running away. It had to be challenged and defeated by force.

  There was more to consider in our relationship. Joyce had two boys, Trey and Brody Alden. Joyce had met Perry Alden while he vacationed at Table Rock Lake. She was twenty-four years old, and life in Hicksville had lost its appeal. Perhaps worried she’d be an old maid and with notably few choices available in Shell Knob, she took a chance to get out of the town. She spent the next ten-plus years trying to find a way back.

  Perry, a Canadian citizen, had money and the drive to secure a great future for his family. But he made unwise choices in his business dealings and was weak in character. Disgruntled, he abandoned Joyce with her two babies and followed the path of least resistance. Perry might’ve returned to British Columbia, but she wasn’t sure, and no longer cared. She filed for divorce, took back her maiden name, and found herself stranded in Toronto waiting tables to make ends meet.

  I was not the stabilizing force she or her kids needed in their lives. I never could be. I’d been aware of the difficulties a relationship with Joyce might cause from day one. I longed to be different than what I’d become, but with the dead body showing up, my instincts called to me in my sleep. My heart ached over my concern that I might hurt Joyce. She didn’t deserve it. The sooner I left, the better for everyone involved, but how was I to slip away when suspicion was everywhere?

  Chapter 2

  “The human body can bear immeasurable pain and yet recover. Wounds can heal. But once your spirit is broken, everything falls apart.”

  —Palden Gyatso

  Jay Landers and I met at Carole’s Restaurant as planned. He was excited to share his groundwork with me. I let him talk for the first forty-five minutes as he recapped the story from what he had for a beginning to the present status.

  “Walter, I don’t have any experience at this level of crime reporting, and I know you have covered a few in the past. How would you follow up?”

  The fact was Landers didn’t know me or anything about me. What he had heard was hearsay from Joyce and lies I’d told him. He hadn’t checked his facts and maybe he should have before he acted on assumption.

  I responded, “Police interviews and known forensic details. Focus on these two areas first. Stay close to old Cletus and don’t dismiss any plausible story lines. I’m not saying trump up stuff. I don’t buy into that sort of journalism. But if the facts are coming out thin, then come at the story from a human-interest angle. People eat it up. What do you have on the dead girl?”

  “Photographs.”

  Jay reached underneath the table, pulled out a soft leather satchel and removed a manila folder with staples on either end. His eyes shifted from side to side with a look of guilt. He slipped the envelope to me.

  “Take a look for yourself.”

  I opened the top of the folder and looked inside at the contents. One by one I removed each picture, examined it, and placed it back into the pouch. He’d secured more than a dozen photographs taken at the scene on the first day. Guilt was replaced by pride as Landers smiled ear to ear. I took my time and went through each one carefully before commenting, “Well done my friend. I suppose it’s not common knowledge you have these in your possession?”

  “Yeah, not exactly. The body was in a ravine not far from the road. I saw the direction Cletus had taken Delford and how quickly he called the body into dispatch. It had to be near the ravine.”

  “Good deduction.”

  “I hiked up the opposite side of the ravine, stayed close to the brush and used a telescopic lens to pull it in close.”

  “Where was Cletus and the deputy while you were taking the shots?”

  “Delford was busy walking Cletus back out of the crime scene. When they had moved far enough away, I made a move that could have gotten me in trouble, but I wanted to get closer. I was able to get a couple angles on the body. Not as good as I would have liked, but better than nothing.”

  “Risky. Daring, but risky. Good job.”

  “Where would you go from here?”

  “I’d use a photo you haven’t taken.”

  Landers scratched his head as he thought, “Like?”

  “Like an area shot with the yellow crime scene tape. That would make good copy for the front page next week.”

  “Okay.”

  “You never want the photos too graphic. You want to stir the community with curiosity. In general, people are sick and morbid. Use your pictures to make the readers hungry for details not to satisfy their desires. You want them to keep coming back for more.”

  Jay shuffled through the photos. “What are you looking for?” I asked. Jay shrugged with frustration and allowed a picture to drop on the table top.

  I pointed at the photo, “What do you see?”

  “A dead girl.”

  I waited for a more judicious answer.

  “Nakedness—I don’t know what you’re asking me. What am I supposed to be seeing or looking for?”

  “The photograph is graphic. She doesn’t have a stitch of clothing on her person.”

  “I just said that.” Jay’s lips thinned as his jaw muscles tightened.

  “Or near her body.” I let him process what I’d said. Jay wasn’t a dimwit. He was capable of understanding the clues. “Were there any signs of clothing that you saw or in your pictures?”

  Jay shuffled back through the photos looking carefully at each. With his last picture in hand, he looked in my direction shaking his head.

  “If the investigators don’t find a single piece of clothing this may not be the murder scene. It might be a dump site instead.” I let it sink in for a minute.

  Jay’s eyes widened, “The actual crime scene
could be anywhere.”

  “Not anywhere but elsewhere. I think it has to be considered.”

  Eager to absorb the new found value in his labor he said, “Depending on the time of death, forensics will be able to estimate the distance she was transported to the dumpsite.”

  “Unfortunately, time of death has too many variables in most cases. Rigor mortis and lividity will likely define the ballpark guess.”

  “I’ll keep an eye out for forensic reports that indicate any clothing found at the scene.”

  “Notice the posture of the body. This has more to do with profiling the killer’s thought process than reporting on the crime. Insight provides a reporter with leads to speculate. In the photo we see the scene was not staged. The body wasn’t left in a grotesque pose or sexual exhibition. I’d say the killer in this case intended for the corpse to decompose. He made a poor attempt to hide it, but I’m guessing the killer didn’t expect it to be discovered. Exhibitionist killers like their work admired.”

  “I can tell you’ve had years of experience with crime scenes, Walter.”

  “I think it’s reasonable to say, I’ve seen my fair share of crime scenes.” If Landers knew the depth of my knowledge, he would’ve run for his life. “What else do you have on the victim?”

  “I spoke with the Sheriff’s Department spokesperson. He is waiting for the autopsy report from the coroner’s office before a statement is released. But, I have it from a good source the victim was ten to twelve years of age, physically abused, and sexually assaulted.”

  “Cause of death?”

  “Asphyxiation evidenced by strangulation. She had ligature marks on her wrists, ankles, and around her throat.”

  “That’s another clue to consider. Whatever happened to this girl took place elsewhere and not at the dumpsite. With that much damage to her body, you would expect to find notable signs of struggle.”